


Post-Mortem Infatuation

by Tyleet



Series: Necrophilia [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, there is no actual necrophilia here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is not falling for a dead woman. That would be ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post-Mortem Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> So, as vaguely promised, this is the sequel to Autopsies of the Rich and Famous, and will make much more sense if you read that first. There will be a third part out soon!  
> Thank you so much to goseaward for being an absolutely wonderful beta.  
> Comments are love. :)

Sherlock hadn’t told Molly where he was going, or what he would be doing, or when he would be back, or much of anything, really.

He’d been incredibly pale, eyes red-rimmed, muttering almost constantly under his breath, and when she’d dared to put a hand on his arm his eyes had snapped up to hers and he’d insulted her almost automatically (“I hardly think now is the time for tearful embraces”) like his rudeness would somehow hide his devastation. Right before he disappeared, though, he’d hesitated, and then gripped her tightly by the shoulders.

“Molly,” he’d said, voice low and intent, “if I ask you to remember an email address and never write it down, can you do that for me?”

She’d wanted to roll her eyes—of all the things that he’d asked her to do, this was by far the simplest—but he’d still been so obviously distressed that she hadn’t had the heart. “Yeah,” she told him instead, a familiar ache in her chest. “I can do that for you.”

He told her never to use it. To do her best to forget she had it. That the only time she should even allow herself to think about using it was if there was a true emergency. That he might not be able to check it, anyway. He never said John Watson’s name, but then, he didn’t need to.

So she doesn’t know at all what she is meant to do about Irene Adler. Irene certainly doesn’t constitute an emergency, even if she triggers all sorts of alarm bells in Molly’s head. But Irene knows that Molly has some kind of secret, and it doesn’t look like she’s about to call it a day any time soon, not if her behaviour is any indication.

A week after the funeral, a black car meets Molly outside the south entrance of Waterloo Station, on her way back from work. The door opens, and a vaguely familiar redhead smiles out at her.

“Um, no,” Molly says, backing up a step. “Not today. I mean, it’s been a really long day at work, and I just—don’t really want to be kidnapped right now, if it’s all the same.”

“Let’s give you a lift home, then,” the woman—what was it Irene Adler had called her? Kate?—says smoothly.

“It’s only a couple of blocks,” Molly says, rubbing at her temples. “I’d prefer to walk.”

“You know she’ll only find you later,” Kate says with a polite smile. 

“Tell her nibs to come find me whenever she likes,” Molly says, exhaustion and the day she’s had--not one but two kids wheeled in from upstairs--getting the better of her, “but I’m not being dragged off to Battersea power station or wherever after a sixteen hour day, all right? I’m going to go home and I’m going to watch Downton Abbey and probably fall asleep on the sofa, and unless she really does want to kill me, she’s just going to have to deal with that.”

Kate looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “I’ll pass it along,” she says, and Molly leaves it at that, turning on her heel and hoping she isn’t followed.

She isn’t, but the next day after work, Molly goes to Sainsbury’s and is debating organic greek yoghurt flavors when a red-nailed hand comes down on her shoulder. Irene Adler is standing just behind her, a patient expression on her face, and it’s so incongruous that Molly honestly does a double-take.

“Hello, Molly,” Irene says, looking like any other woman shopping after work—her hair in a loose braid, dyed a dark red this time, plain business suit, a basket slung over her arm. “Let’s not make a scene.”

“Um—what are you doing here?” Molly asks, badly off-balance. Irene Adler, in the dairy section of Sainsbury’s. It’s like meeting Mycroft Holmes in the queue for a cash-point machine.

“Shopping,” Irene says easily, plucking a tub of cottage cheese off the shelf. “And having a bit of a chat. I figured this was ideal, since you were too tired to come when I asked you.”

“Right,” Molly says, and sighs. “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you, though.”

“I think you know exactly what I want you to tell me,” Irene murmurs. “But I don’t think we’re there yet, so let’s skip it. How was work?”

They wander away from dairy into the fruit and vegetable section. “Work?” Molly repeats, to make sure she’s heard it right.

“Yes,” Irene says, eyebrows raised. “You know, the thing that takes up so much of your time and energy, while our mutual friend may be fighting for his life—I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your schedule, after all.” Wow. Sour.

“It was brilliant,” Molly says, letting her irritation creep into her tone. “Really. They brought in a gentleman today who couldn’t have left his flat in years—I have no idea how they even got him through the door to bring him to us. And it turned out he lived alone and hadn’t any family, so along with being four hundred pounds, he was already well on his way to proper decomposition. Have you ever been up to your elbows in subcutaneous fat, Ms. Adler?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Irene replies, but she’s stopped looking angry and started looking fascinated, her mouth caught in a half-smile, focused on Molly in a way that should remind her of Sherlock but doesn’t. Sherlock looks at you like he’s stripping off your skin to see the pure facts of you. Irene looks at you like she’s stripping off your clothes and your inhibitions and wants to eat whatever it is she sees down in your core.

“Well,” stutters Molly, unsettled again, “well—let me tell you. The only thing worse than that is when it’s weeks old, and actually turned _green_. And—and after a day like that, excuse me, but I’m just not up for being kidnapped and talked at, all right?”

“Of course,” Irene says at once, and then smiles, broadly. Molly can’t help the way her smile tugs at something under her breastbone—Irene Adler, Irene Adler, smiling at _me_ —stop being starstruck, Molly Hooper, she’s just a woman. Irene asks, “I imagine that all you want today is your yoghurt and ITV, as well. Am I right?”

“Well,” Molly says, shifting her weight, “yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Fine,” Irene says, and leans in close. Molly feels her hand slip, just barely, into the pocket of Molly’s coat.

“What––” she manages, but Irene is still too close, fingers brushing Molly’s hip, gaze flicking up from Molly’s mouth to Molly’s eyes.

“Call me when you’ve had some sleep,” Irene finishes smoothly, and then she winks—she actually winks—before walking away, graceful as a movie star leaving a set.

Molly reaches into her pocket and pulls out the business card—creamy, expensive, blank except for a number—and is suddenly very aware that she’s standing in front of a display of cabbage, mouth slightly parted, heart beating too fast. Sherlock Holmes used to be the only person who could make me such an idiot, she thinks, and shoves the card back into her pocket, forcing herself to walk towards the register. She presses hard over her heart with one palm, and tells herself to get back under control.

 

Molly doesn’t call the number. A week later she’s at work, and a body comes in as part of a murder investigation, which makes her miss Sherlock rather sharply. She used to look forward to the bodies the police were involved with, because there was always the chance that he would show up, lit up all fierce and brilliant, and try to elbow her away from the body, steal a liver, demand that she give him access to five more corpses that couldn’t possibly be related except that of course, this time, they were.

“Okay,” she’s saying to Gary, who’s just transferred from Pediatrics, and who she suspects is going to keep up his awful habit of looking at her chest instead of her face when she talks.  “So here’s how it goes—now, more than any other time, you really have to make sure we’ve got our security right. I know Mike’s probably already given you the lecture—some people are just interested in corpses, for––whatever reason—and we don’t indulge them. Nobody allowed in the morgue that isn’t supposed to be in the morgue. The thing you’ve got to remember about these bodies is that they’re also evidence—so all that security is extra strength, all right? You can report even me if I come in when I’m not supposed to.” Gary has been staring awkwardly over her shoulder the whole time she’s been talking, and she’s starting to get annoyed—he always gives Mike his best attention, scared stiff of the—stiffs, so why is he looking at her like there’s something much more interesting right behind her––?

A polite cough comes from the door, and when Molly whirls around, Irene Adler is leaning against the doorframe, holding a clipboard, smiling that devastating smile.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Irene says, and flashes a bloody police badge. “Gregson’s sent me down to have a look, if you don’t mind.”

“Gary,” Molly says with false cheeriness, “why don’t you get us a coffee?”

“Black, no sugar,” Irene calls after him as he leaves, and then the door to the morgue shuts and they’re alone. She looks perfectly comfortable, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched, like she’s John Watson or DI Lestrade or someone else who—belongs there.

“Are you mad?” Molly asks, incredulously. “You’re—you’re wanted by the police, and you decide the best way to stay under the radar is to impersonate one?”

“Actually,” Irene says, pushing herself off the door, “I was never wanted by the police. Now, if the MI-5 boys should get a glimpse of me…”

“And you think it’s worth the risk?” Molly asks.

“Naturally,” Irene says, with a quick flash of teeth. “I’m all about risks, Molly. Why else do you think I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

While Molly tries to figure out how to answer that, Irene saunters up to the body on the slab and peels back the sheet.

“What are you doing?” Molly asks, shrill. “That’s evidence, you can’t just—“

“Oh, nasty stuff,” Irene says, perfectly at ease, examining the multiple stab wounds to poor Mr. Josephson’s torso. “Is this where you did me?”

Molly goes still. Obviously she’d remembered—impossible to forget, really—but she’d rather thought that Irene might have forgotten. Or not cared, more likely. “That wasn’t you,” she says quietly.

“Yes, but you thought it was,” Irene says, and pulls the sheet back up. “How odd. A lump of meat, just like any other body.”

“I––” Molly hesitates. “Sherlock. Came in to identify you.”

“I rather thought he might,” Irene says distantly. “Why? Did he say something?”

“He looked upset,” Molly says, and then honesty forces her to add—“For Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Irene nods, but she looks serious, almost unhappy. “It was necessary. I suppose you think that I taught him all this.” And it would be easy to blame Irene, wouldn’t it? For all this secrecy and the quiet terror of giving something away, for all these boring days at work, for that horrible sentence on John Watson’s blog, for the way Greg Lestrade might have lost his position—for all of that. It would be nice to have someone to blame.

“No,” Molly whispers. “Well, or even if he did learn it from you, it’s not like it’s something he wouldn’t have done anyway. He was always—cruel.”

Irene smiles, and this one’s different, small and—sincere? Molly’s going to have to start making a catalogue of this woman’s smiles, if each of them ends up being this striking, this painful, in all these different ways. “Molly,” she says. “Would you believe me if I told you he was in danger, and only I could help?”

“I’d believe the first part,” Molly says, and tries to steady her breathing. “But not the second.”

“Then you’d be the hero-worshiping fool that everyone thinks you,” Irene tells her, almost caressingly.

“I know he’s human,” Molly says, stung. “I’m not—I’m his friend, I’m not an idiot, of course I’m worried sick about him. But he’s put himself into all this, and—I trust him.”

“Trust,” Irene says, stepping closer, well into Molly’s personal space. “That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it?”

“He doesn’t trust you,” Molly says, faltering. “He would have come to you himself if he did.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Irene agrees. “But he trusts you, Molly. And believe me when I tell you that regardless of what you think of me, if you don’t let me help him, he won’t last six months. That wouldn’t just bode poorly for him, remember, but also for that nice police inspector, the landlady, and John Watson. Maybe even you. Are you willing to take that risk?”

Molly shudders involuntarily, and Irene nods, bringing a hand up to the side of Molly’s face, which immediately heats up, her thumb tracing the curve of one cheekbone.

“Soon,” Irene tells her, and her eyes are very close, very green, very sad. “You have to tell me soon.”

When Molly gets home, she opens up her laptop, opens up a compose window in gmail. The cursor blinks at her, and she thinks _Trust, trust, he trusts me_. She closes her laptop, shuts her eyes, breathes.

“I’m not built for this,” she whispers, and Toby butts his head against her knee. She inhales deeply, then opens her eyes and grabs for her phone, punching in a number. It goes to voicemail.

“John?” she says, voice a little too high-pitched. “John, this is Molly. From, from the hospital. I just—I haven’t seen you since the funeral, and I wanted to—“ check up on him? make sure he hasn’t been killed? somehow, impossibly, reassure her that she’s doing the right thing? “—know if you would like to get—coffee. Sometime. Um, not as a date. Just as—just if, you know, you wanted to talk, or––” She doesn’t know what she’s saying. The last thing in the world she wants is to talk to John Watson, pretend like she doesn’t know anything, let the guilt eat her alive. “—just. If you need anything. I’m here,” she finishes, the awkwardness leaving her red and short of breath. “Okay. I hope you’re all right. Um. Bye.”

She flips the computer open, types before she has time to really think about it.

 _IA wants to help you, and I think maybe you should let her. She gave me this number. Will you think about calling her? Please. I didn’t tell her anything, she just knew. I hope you’re all right._  

She attaches Irene’s number, and hits send.

 

When she wakes up, it’s early—can’t be more than five in the morning, the light’s too blue for anything else—and she can’t imagine what woke her. Toby’s still curled up on the pillow next to her, her phone is still and silent on the dresser, there’s no music. “Mmwhat?” she mutters aloud, and is snapped into sudden terrified awareness when a voice drifts out of the darkness in the other room: “It’s only me. Go back to sleep.”

Molly hurls herself out of bed, heart pounding like crazy, Toby startled awake and hissing, and Irene appears in the doorway, frowning.

“What—what are you doing in my flat,” Molly gasps, one hand pressed automatically to her chest.

“Saying thank you,” Irene says lightly, and holds up the pair of small black pliers she has in one hand. There is a tiny something caught in its grip, and it’s not even sunrise yet, Molly can’t deal with this.

“Is—is that a––” she begins, scrubbing a hand over her hair.

“A bug?” Irene asks, helpfully. “I suspect most of them are big brother’s, but we can’t be too careful. You did date Jim Moriarty, after all.”

“It was only three times,” Molly says automatically, then shakes her head. “No, sorry, but what are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Irene raises an eyebrow. “I’ve put on coffee. Would you like some?”

It’s five in the morning, there’s a presumed-dead celebrity whose crimes are covered by the National Secrets Act in her flat, apparently comfortable around her coffee pot, and Molly’s heart is still thundering in her chest. “Yes,” she replies, “Coffee would be—good.”

She follows Irene into her tiny kitchenette and ends up sitting on her sofa with her hands clutched around a mug while Irene continues to systematically hunt down and destroy all the illicit hardware in Molly’s flat. It turns out that Irene’s flight—to Russia, she says with a smile—doesn’t leave until eight, which meant she had some extra time to take care of things.

“Like breaking into my flat and debugging me,” Molly says, dazedly. She hunches around her coffee mug, very aware of the fact that all she’s wearing is her nightie. 

“Among other things,” Irene says, tossing back her hair, which is an unremarkable brown, now, and probably an essential part of blending in as an American tourist, to go with the jeans and suit jacket, the small white T-shirt and the artfully-scuffed cowboy boots. “You’ll have to be careful, now, of course. Big brother’s probably going to get in touch, for one. But I think it’s better this way, don’t you?”

And Molly has to admit that she doesn’t at all like the idea that people have been listening to her every move for months. In the end, she reasons she’s in for a penny already, so she hands Irene her laptop and phone and asks her to take a look at them as well.

“Do you speak Russian?” she asks, as Irene taps confidently into her BlackBerry.

“No,” Irene says. “But an American tourist doesn’t stand out anywhere except the Middle East, so that’s fine.”

“Can you—tell me what you’ll be helping him with?” Molly braves.

“Loads of things,” Irene tells her, with a half-smile. “But I suspect he’ll need me most for theft and murder. He’s not exactly used to skipping around on this side of the law.”

Molly stiffens, and Irene looks up.

“Will it make you feel better,” she asks, “if I tell you that everyone on Sherlock’s list is undoubtedly a very bad man?”

“I don’t know,” Molly mutters. “No.”

“That’s sweet,” Irene tells her, handing the phone back. “I don’t think it makes him feel any better, either, much as he’d deny it. Which is exactly why he needs me.”

“But he doesn’t want you,” Molly says without thinking about it, and then inhales sharply. “Sorry,” she says at once, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, it’s early.”

“Don’t be,” Irene replies, cool and unreadable. “Would you believe that I don’t want him either?”

“No,” Molly says, because it is early, and she’s already put her foot in it, and—if Irene doesn’t love him, then why on earth is she doing this?

“Good,” Irene says, not missing a beat. “But it doesn’t stop either one of us from wanting other things.”

Molly can’t say anything to that.

“I’m going to miss my flight if I don’t leave now." Irene sighs and stands up.

“Be careful,” Molly blurts out, standing as well.

“Always,” Irene says, and steps closer, enigmatic smile back on. “I’ll be in touch.”

“No, you won’t,” Molly says, breathless and hating it, and Irene chuckles.

“Yes I will,” Irene tells her, and wraps one hand around her neck and one hand around her waist, voice rich and dark with promise. “Thank you, Molly.”

And then Molly’s being kissed—and she’s not an idiot, she knew a lot of this was flirting, but she also—she’s, she’d never imagined that Irene Adler’s mouth would be soft and warm, that her hands on Molly’s skin would make her shiver, not like the taunts she thought they were at all.

“Don’t let any of them get you down,” Irene whispers against her mouth. “Trust me, sweetheart, we’re not worth it.” Molly sucks in a quick breath, and Irene brushes her hair carefully back before stepping away––and then she’s gone, the front door shutting quietly behind her.

 

Molly spends the rest of the day in a daze. Irene Adler kissed her. Irene Adler _kissed_ her.  _Irene Adler_ kissed _her_. Irene Adler, who is on her way to find Sherlock Holmes—Irene Adler, who Sherlock had apparently changed his mind about. Who they had both—apparently—decided to trust after all. She’d kissed her, and Molly had—well, if she couldn’t be honest to herself, when could she be honest?––Molly had liked it. Which is really a sign, she tells herself firmly, that she is entirely too starstruck for her own good. Because she’s not gay. She’s thirty one years old, for God’s sake—this is something she knows about herself. She’s not gay.

“I’m not gay,” she accidentally says out loud, while filling out paperwork on autopilot. Gary shoots her a weird look. Damn.

“And that would be my cue for a coffee break,” she says grimly, standing up. “Senseless muttering, never a good sign. Can I get you anything?” She leaves before he musters up an answer, flushed red and hating it.

Maybe Irene had landed in Moscow, by this time. Maybe she’d already found Sherlock, in her American tourist disguise—maybe she’d, she’d kissed him, her mouth that only hours before had been kissing Molly. Maybe her lips were pressed to Sherlock’s lips, and they would both be soft, so soft, he’d be bent way over, but her hands would be curled around his neck and waist the way they’d been curled around Molly’s, and Sherlock would shiver the way she had shivered, and—“Stop it,” she growls at herself, and promptly spills her coffee, startled by the sound of her own voice.

After work, shirt still stained brown down the front, she checks her phone. There’s a missed call from John Watson, and she winces. That’s not a call she wants to take, not today. There’s also one new text message.

_Found him--furious, red-faced, grateful. Thank you (again.) x_

Molly wants to send back a reply, but her fingers have curled over the phone entirely without her permission, pressing it close to her heart. Oh, thank god, she thinks, thank god.

 

She arranges to meet John Watson for coffee on Saturday, but a block away from the bus stop, a black car pulls up beside her, and an attractive, almost entirely anonymous woman opens the door.

“I—I thought she’d left London,” Molly says, heart sudden beating wildly.

The woman smiles blandly at her. “Get in the car, Miss Hooper.”

Molly does.

There’s a pause as she settles herself into the back seat, and the car starts moving. The woman ignores Molly completely, typing rapidly on her phone.

“Um,” Molly hesitates. “Where’s Kate, then?”

“Kate?” the woman asks, vaguely. Molly’s heart sinks.

“She—she didn’t send you at all, did she?”

The woman looks up, with a pitying smile. “No.”

Molly shrinks back against the door and tries not to hyperventilate, too many possibilities flipping through her mind—Irene shouldn’t have destroyed those bugs, they’d found her, Moriarty had found her—maybe he wasn’t dead after all, maybe she hadn’t checked as thoroughly as she should have—what had they been thinking, imagining he’d forgotten her, he’d dated her, he knew where she lived, he knew how she felt about Sherlock, he’d—

“You can stop panicking,” the woman says, bored. “You’re entirely safe.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you would say,” Molly snaps, gripping her hands together to keep them from shaking.

The woman sighs, and keeps typing.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Molly carefully eases her hand into her pocket, gets hold of her phone. Blindly, she tries to text the police—secret conspiracies are all very well, until you’re actually being kidnapped, and then they can go to hell, she thinks with an edge of hysteria, but as soon as she manages to type in what she hopes is “HELP” and hits send, her phone chirrups an error message at her.

“No service, I’m afraid,” the woman says, still tapping away on her own phone.

“B—but what about—“ Molly looks pointedly at the woman’s hands.

The woman smiles. “Government issue,” she replies, and that’s enough of a clue that when the car finally stops and Molly walks into a warehouse to find Sherlock’s brother standing there, impassive, her heart is racing more with anger than with fear.

“That was horrible,” she tells him, still trembling slightly. “Why in god’s name would you do something like that?”

“Standard procedure,” he says impassively. “Would you like to sit down?” He gestures towards a lone chair, and she shakes her head, crossing her arms.

“Are you going to tell me why you kidnapped me?” she asks, blunt.

He smiles, thinly. “You’ve been talking to Irene Adler,” he says.

“N-no,” she says, instinctively. “Um, who?”

He sighs. “Miss Hooper, as you are no doubt aware, I have been watching you ever since you assisted my brother in faking his own suicide. Irene Adler has been in touch with you for months—and as of Tuesday, she’s left the country, severing all ties—except for you.”

“She texted me once,” Molly says softly, uncomfortably aware that this is the second time she’s had Sherlock’s secret pried out of her.

He smiles. “You have done my brother a great service,” he says, which is so entirely unexpected that Molly just blinks at him for a second. “I am prepared to ask you to do him another.”

“What do you want?” she asks, guarded.

He inclines his head. “Information. If either of them get in contact with you again, Miss Hooper, I want to know about it.”

“No,” she says, faintly surprised at herself. “No, I won’t do that. Not without their permission.”

Mycroft sighs. “Miss Hooper. I don’t know that you realize exactly how delicate your situation is.”

“Look,” she says, with more bravery than she really knew she had, “I don’t care about money, or any of that, and I think you know it, because. Well. Because I’m a bit obvious, I suppose, and everybody knows that’s not why I’m—here. But I—I won’t break any more trusts, all right? If you want to talk to them, you’ll have to talk to them yourself. And—and there’s your answer,” she finishes, with as much firmness as she can manage. “Is there anything else?” 

“What do you want with Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asks her, not missing a beat. “You’ve left him quite alone for three months, and on Tuesday night you call him and ask him for coffee.”

“I—I don’t know,” Molly says. “It just—felt like the right thing to do, I suppose.”

“Don’t tell him,” Mycroft says, voice hard. “You’ve revealed enough secrets today, Miss Hooper. Be assured that everyone is better off for John Watson’s ignorance.”

“I won’t,” Molly tells him, horrified. “I wouldn’t, I just—“ Irene Adler knew. Mycroft knew. She was sure of it.

“I believe my brother trusted you because he believed no one would remember you,” Mycroft tells her. His voice is very cold. “And that has proven true, to a point. Having come to any interested party’s attention, you are proving remarkably talkative. See to it that this is no longer the case.” Or I will see to it for you, his eyes and the set of his mouth seem to promise.

“I won’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I won’t.”

Mycroft nods, shortly. “One more thing,” he says, voice still terrifyingly distant, eyes as intent and cruel as Sherlock’s ever were. “John Watson is a grieving man. Be assured that any attempt to take advantage of that grief would go very badly for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” she says, shocked, “I would never—god, who do you think I am?”

Sherlock’s brother smiles, again. “Six months ago, I would have said you were lonely, hopelessly infatuated, and unimaginative—in other words, entirely unremarkable, Miss Hooper. But now—“ he pauses, and she feels her cheeks flaming, partly with humiliation, partly with rage, because really, how dare he? “—you are at the center of a conspiracy, and in league with one of the world’s most notorious criminals. A murderer and a thief. Now, Miss Hooper, I don’t think anyone knows what to make of you.”

Molly’s phone chirps with a text. Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “What does it say?” he asks her, softly.

She picks it up, but doesn’t read it out. 

_Bored in a hotel. S locked in his mind palace. How was your day? x_

“It’s n-nothing,” she stammers.

“Tell me,” he says, voice hard.

“It’s still not your business,” she whispers. There’s a long, frankly terrifying pause, and then he sighs.

“Don’t tell me, then. But you must be much more careful,” Mycroft says, and he’s right, she knows he’s right.

 

Fifteen minutes later, a black car drops her off in front of the Caffe Nero where she had agreed to meet John. The conversation is as hard as she thought it would be. She doesn’t need to fake her tears.

“It’s okay,” John Watson tells her, helplessly, as she chokes up into her napkin. “Molly, it’s fine.”

“No—no, it’s not,” she manages, choking up. Not after what she did. Not knowing that he was probably in love with a dead man, that she’d sent Irene Adler straight into his arms. Not after failing so miserably at keeping Sherlock’s secrets. “I’m so sorry, John,” she chokes out.  
  
He looks miserable, like he wants to be anywhere else. That’s good, she tells herself, that’s good—if he wanted to talk to you, you’d probably end up spilling all your secrets to him, anyway. Be pathetic, Molly Hooper—that’s how you keep people from asking you questions. Be as pathetic as you can, and he’ll never want to talk to you again, and then he’ll be safe. She sobs a little harder.

 

When she finally gets home, she’s raw from crying, trying to forget how utterly petrified she’d been by focusing on how humiliated she’d felt, which in turn makes her angry. “Everyone I know is either dead or thinks I’m pathetic,” she tells Toby, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Or both.”

She wants to text Irene, but is too aware of Mycroft’s warnings, so instead she pours herself a glass of wine and opens up her blog. She’d abandoned it after Jim had turned out to be Moriarty—but it’s not as though anyone checked it for updates, anyway. Well, no one except Moriarty’s men and the British government, probably, she realizes sourly, and shuts her computer in disgust. Then re-opens it, because dammit, she can still try to send a message, if she can.

She writes:

_Well, it’s been a while. I didn’t think I’d keep posting here, but I’m feeling a bit wordy today, so here we are! Toby’s doing great, settled in really well, although he likes to wake me up at absurd hours by collapsing onto my chest! We’re working on that._

Lies, lies, she thinks, viciously stabbing at the keys. She didn’t used to lie all the time.

 _I’ve been doing some reflecting lately_ , she writes instead, _about everything, really. And I think the conclusion that I’ve come to is that love is very, very complicated. That might seem obvious, but really it is hard to realize! It’s hard to tell, for example, if you’re in love with more than one person, or if maybe you’ve just been confused about what love is supposed to be for a long time._

No good, she thinks, and gulps down another sip of wine. Gives too much away. She backspaces all the way to “the conclusion that I’ve come to.”

_is that I’m not cut out for classic literature! I’ve been doing some reading lately, you know, trying to be more well-rounded, a better person—_

––trying to save people’s lives, Mycroft Holmes, she thinks, mouth crumpling a little—

 _and I started with Lady Chatterly’s Lover, which I liked quite a lot, but I’m not sure it’s for me. I also thought I should read 1984, but I’m finding it thoroughly unpleasant. Not a nice book, is it? I’d burn it, but that seems a bit—ill advised._ (I want to call your brother a bully, Sherlock Holmes, ten times worse than you were—only he’s doing it because he cares about you, isn’t he, and you were only ever cruel because you wanted to be. I’m not being fair. Amazing how many people seem to care about you, Sherlock, after you’ve died _.) Don’t know that I’ll want to keep all this reading up—it doesn’t seem to be that improving_ —so stop texting me, Irene Adler, apparently it isn’t safe— _and I think I might actually prefer telly._ _Well, there goes my attempt to be interesting! Oh, well. Better this way, I suppose. Toby says hi to all!_

There. Someone as smart as they are ought to know a message when they see it. She finishes the rest of the wine, entirely miserable.

When her phone buzzes two minutes later, she almost falls off the couch, grabbing for it—but all it says is:

_Perhaps more careful than that, although it’s clear what you were trying to do. The post has been deleted. Don’t try it again, Miss Hooper. –MH_

She throws her phone at the wall, Toby jumping away, startled and unhappy—and she can hear it break

She’d thought—she’d thought she could be clever, or clever enough for them. She’d thought that maybe she could be—in this, somehow, with them. But I was wrong, wasn’t I, she thinks bitterly. I’m always wrong.

She falls asleep on the couch, and dreams about green eyes and a sharp, sweet mouth. The next morning, an envelope’s been delivered to her door, with a brand new phone inside, and a note informing her that while her contacts have been transferred, the number is different. Someone will let her know if the situation changes.

She scrolls quickly through to see if Irene’s number is still there, but of course it’s gone.

“Fine,” she whispers to the phone, certain that someone who works for Mycroft Holmes is listening. “You win, then. You win.”

And that’s the last she hears of anyone to do with Sherlock Holmes for a long time.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Who Is The Lamb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182288) by [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism)




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